


half a heart-beat

by Feather (lalaietha)



Series: (even if i could) make a deal with god [your blue-eyed boys related short-fic] [118]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: "fuck" is punctuation sometimes, Disabled Character, M/M, Mentally Ill Character, sleep is hard sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7911409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/Feather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's vaguely aware that beside him, Steve's awake; he's also aware that he, personally, does not fucking want to fucking well be fucking awake and so tries not to think about . . . well, any-fucking-thing, tell the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	half a heart-beat

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of [**this series**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/132585), which is for short-fic associated with my fic [**your blue-eyed boys**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/107477), because I needed somewhere to stash it.
> 
> Reminder that canon for this fic still stops at _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. (Emphatically.) 
> 
> This one's kinda short. *hands*

Bucky's vaguely aware that beside him, Steve's awake; he's also aware that he, personally, does not fucking want to fucking well be fucking awake and so tries not to think about . . . well, any-fucking-thing, tell the truth. 

Except it's not really "trying" because if you try you end up fucking thinking about things, it's the negative reflection of trying, like a fucking insane balancing act, but sometimes it works, and right now it's kind of working, and in this place of not-thinking his shoulder and the opposite side of his lower back only ache a little and his head barely hurts and for the moment it's far away, so fuck that. 

So he doesn't . . . think, exactly. He's just . . . aware of things. Some things. 

He's aware of Steve lying on his side, near enough to feel body-heat if that's the kind of thing you notice. And it is the kind of thing he notices. Always notices. It . . .means things. That the body beside him's still alive, still a person, not a corpse. That the person doesn't mind being that close. So Bucky's aware of that. 

Of how Steve's leaning on one elbow, awake but relaxed, no tension from anything, any cause. Ventilation twelve breaths per minute, indicating normal resting heart-rate of forty to forty-five bpm. He knows these things, better than his own. He doesn't care to notice his own, beyond _too fast_ or _too slow_ , but he learns the patterns of Steve's vital signs almost by accident. Old habits. And new-old habits. And who the fuck knows, even really new ones, part of the litany of checking fucking reality. Point is he knows them and right now they . . . are. 

But he doesn't have to do anything about them. 

He's aware of the knot of heat and fur that is the stupid fucking kitten, curled up against his upper back. Wedged in as tightly as she can get like if she could ooze under him she would. That she's not purring anymore but only because she's completely fucking asleep. 

Because the window's open, he knows someone's cooking meat on a grill somewhere nearby: that swirls in around everything he's aware of, too, with the faint high-pitched hum of appliances and the faint sounds of the couple in 302 having another fight. 

The way Steve smells, from his own skin to the traces of cumin on his hands from whatever he ate before he came home. 

And finally, he's aware (but far enough away, far enough under the skin of what could pretend to be sleep because he _doesn't want to be awake_ , that he doesn't have to do anything, think anything about it, he can just let it be - ) of the moment when Steve reaches over with the hand he's not leaning on to push Bucky's hair back from his face (not that it needs it) and then skim his palm down over Bucky's left arm to tuck under his elbow, between Bucky's arm and his side. 

Doesn't have to do anything or think anything about it when Steve shifts his weight off the arm he was leaning on and moves to lie down and settle closer, enough to rest his arm around Bucky's waist. Can just . . . let that happen, let his own body make the tiny rearrangements bodies do by themselves, to settle again. Fit better. 

He's not awake. He doesn't want to be awake. So he doesn't have to do anything or think anything about it. Can just let it be, when Steve moves his hand again and cradles the back of Bucky's head, rests his forehead against the top of Bucky's forehead and stays there. 

Might wish he could figure out how to do this when he's awake, except he'd have to think, to wish that, and he's not fucking going to.

It's another hour before he manages to actually fucking fall asleep, and it's only for two, but it's something.


End file.
